


A memory

by Ruiniel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Romance, F/M, Rivendell | Imladris, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruiniel/pseuds/Ruiniel
Summary: This came about as a prompt from the lovely antiheld, who also happens to be the author of my favorite LOTR Fourth Age AU story (have some joy: search for Astray).I had to insert this Quenya phrase: Á nute ar lá lertan nore, hérince—Tie me up so that I cannot run, Master (genderless) - phrase courtesy of realelvish.netPairing: Arwen/GlorfindelAim for: dark/angsty - lonely/lost, virginal Arwen OR married/not quite happy ArwenAlternate Universe, I stress! The following would never take place, of course (sacrilege) but for my nasty fingers, and this prompt.Falls under the all encompassing 'What If' category.LACE? What LACE?Please heed the rating.
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel/Glorfindel
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	A memory

_In Imladris, the night before setting out for Minas Tirith._

The house was still at this time of night, a gentle beast in slumber. She rushed forward, disheveled, dark strands trailing behind her like trembling shadows. The marble floors were cold beneath her bare feet. She had retired early from the celebrations marking the last night spent in Imladris as a daughter of the Vale. Resting for the journey at hand would be wiser, but try as she did, Irmo evaded her. The daughter of Elrond had paced through her garden of reckless desires for a time, pondering, despairing; at last, she could take no more. A balmy wind moaned through the open windows set along the corridor, its warm breath lifting the sheer gossamer draperies like shivering wraiths in her path.

Arwen blinked away the unwanted visions, and her steps gained a flow aligned to the thumping in her breast. She climbed winded stairways and crossed wide, lofty chambers, until at last the radiance of a bright moon fell upon her with the opening to the solarium. Hesitant, she halted at the entrance.

The aura was familiar, distinct; most times it rose strong and lively, searing; but now it dwindled to the bruised shade of a withered sunset. Its warm tendrils waded through her, fading as late summer rays. Lips parted, eyes closed, Arwen breathed deeply, the effort rattling her very bones. She passed inside, closed the door - then barred it.

Her vision tailored to the gloom, she first glanced at the great divan set in the middle of the chamber. It occupied most of the wide space, and many nights she had spent here in her youth, stargazing. It was empty now, of course, and she looked to the clear night sky visible through the glass dome. She watched the stars, sewn into the velvet darkness, distant, careless, and free beyond the world. A small measure of envy swelled within her.

She shook her head, her gaze now set on the entrance leading to the outer terrace, and the long shadow cast across the floor tiles.

He was silent as the night, his back turned to her, palms propped against the carved stone edge. The echoes of thrashing waterfalls reached her, attuned to her trepidation. Restless waters splashed into their glittering pools. Losing her fortitude, Arwen settled there and watched. Late, she braved two steps forward.

His long hand reached for the cup placed at his side on the railing. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply, his golden head falling back in a careless tilt. The cup struck the stone with a metallic cry. His head lowered.

Before she knew it, Arwen stood on the threshold. She took the view before them - the angry river, shearing through the valley like a great writhing serpent. Tilion glowed round and bright, his silver light layering the mountain tops. The Hithaeglir rose as dark, imposing guardians, and their sharp shoulders held the stars.

"Stay where you are."

His voice was hoarse and lowered in warning, trodden, the opposite of earlier that evening; when he sat smiling and serene by her father at dinner, jesting with her brothers. He would not look her way then, either.

Arwen faltered in her step, her eyes set on his spear-straight back. She breathed, not daring to move or speak. Late, his shoulders fought a shiver, and he turned to face her.

Her mouth fell open, and Arwen stared. His face was drawn, ghostly in the moonlight, and the glint of inebriation sparked in his gaze. "I knew you would be here," she murmured.

He looked to his cup, downed the rest of his drink. The rich aroma of wine and marigold wafted through the air, and an open bottle stood abandoned near his feet.

Memories flashed in her mind's eye. Long nights spent together in silence, watching the astral circles; lying sprawled amid flowering fields, shoulder to shoulder. Things were simpler then. She took a step, then another, and emboldened by his stillness, Arwen struggled forward. She saw his jaw working as his hand slid away from the empty cup. Standing before him, she reached for a lock of gold, twirling it around one slender finger.

He had lowered his head to her, eyes closed in surrender. Unmoving he sat, propped against the cold stone, his long legs crossed. His stance spoke more than words. When Arwen reached around his neck, he raised his chin - the gesture sharp in its rebuke. "This amuses you?" he groused, his face turned to the sky.

"How can you think that?" the maiden sighed, shivering in her nightdress. It hurt to see his misery. Her other hand splayed over his fine garment, and before she knew it, her entire body leaned into him like a lonely reed. "I only... I wanted…" her forehead rested on his collarbone. A steady beat thrummed against her temple. "Findë," she implored, "A farewell, only once, only..."

His grip was heavy on her, his fingers trembling. He unlaced her arms from around his neck, hands sliding to her wrists. He held them up, stared at them, then at her, grimacing at the need in her eyes. Along the Ages, there had never been the right time. Not one shred of it. "You know not what you ask of me," he broke with finality, though his starved gaze never left her.

A bold flame licked at her reason. "I need this," Arwen insisted. Her voice wavered, words crumbling over each other. "I want it to be you."

The hold on her wrists tightened, drawing her closer. His eyes skimmed over her dewy features.

"A token, a memory," she pleaded, struggling though his grip stood firm.

She knew he did not resent her for any of it. He was strong and had seen the dawn of time in the world. He had understood - or so she thought. Honor kept him away. All was as it should be.

Despite this, desperation ruled for a split shard of time, enough for her knee to brush his inner thigh; the muscle tensed, and his sigh misted in the night.

Faster than she could preempt, he reached around her waist, bringing her in, his face hidden in the crook of her neck. "Why have you done this?" his words trembled, glazing warmth over her skin. "Why have you done this?..." his other arm come around her.

He would never see her again. The light of the Eldar would fade from her eyes. She would vanish on a different path, her spirit hurled to none knew where. The only measure of comfort: he would not be there to see it. On selfish impulse he leaned into her, his taller frame nestling hers, hands shivering up and down her back. His mouth was soft on her skin.

"A memory..." Arwen moaned as his touch became rough, fingers pressing in the spaces between her ribs, his breathing erratic. Then he stilled, and all she felt was the tickle of his lips, warm and wet, opening against hers; she was lost in the taste of heated wine. The air in his lungs left angry and harsh, and her legs melted beneath her, and lost in him Arwen gasped at the sudden, shearing noise as her shift was ripped at her shoulder. He righted himself, raising the maiden to him.

This was real, her troubled mind warned - his arm around her middle, his other hand gripping her rear, and she could barely draw air against his starved mouth. Darkness swallowed them as they passed the entrance to the wide chamber, and the open sky came into view. He threw her onto the divan, then straightened, undoing his belt. The stars were cold beyond the glass ceiling but even they melted away as his long-lashed eyes locked on hers.

He slowly descended to her, his hair of shining gold streaming down his back and shoulders like a soft mantle. She felt so small against him, huffing a strained breath as he adjusted his weight to hers. Arwen trapped him in her own right, willing his anguish away with the slow pursuit of her lips.

He touched her face, his warm kiss become bruising and hasty, unlacing her dress with shaking hands, and Arwen struggled with his confining shirt. He had the first victory, revealing her easily, first one breast, then the other; his hand feverishly cupped each, his thumb grazing over the rose-tinted tips.

Her blood leaped in her veins; at her silver gasp his eyes cut to hers again, and Glorfindel dipped his head and kissed her, breathless, grasping her thigh, pushing down against her with a near hostile advance that hurt them both.

He rolled his hips against hers, trapped by her heartbeat - it sang, like a fluttering bird in a cage of bones. The warrior felt her long hands, prying and eager around his torso.

Arwen arched her back as he covered her body with his, only to feel his length, searing hard against her lower middle; fear of the unknown pooled into her, but it wilted into nothing when their eyes met. "I will mind you," he said, his eyes closing as his lips sought the tip of her nose, her chin. He knew.

She smiled unsteadily as her lover rose to slide his trousers down below his hips, releasing himself. Arwen licked her lips, lost to a spark rushing between her legs at the sight of so much bared skin, her eyes following the shaped cut lines in his abdomen, leading to-...

He lifted the folds of her nightdress above her hips, her breasts, her head, disposing of it entirely. Then she was melting into his skin, savoring the pulsing heat pressing hard against her belly. Gone was the content Elf-lord who had known both sides of the Veil. There was no peace in him now; longing, guilt, and dismay whirled behind his eyes.

Arwen melded her mouth to his, eager to taste, as she had dreamt of doing all those nights when she could not help herself. Her hands ran down his back beneath his garment, and Glorfindel brought one of her slender legs around his hips.

"Á nute ar lá lertan nore, hérince," he showed, nibbling on her lips. Unknowingly, he had used his mother tongue. His brief smile gleamed as her legs eagerly bound around him. He rested his forehead on hers, his lower body angling slightly as his hand reached down.

"Show me... how..." Arwen tried then went still, his touch ghosting the soft dark patch between her legs; he sighed into her mouth, feeling her mound tenderly before one finger found her slit, running a languid trail up and down. It felt good, and she lost herself, opening to his hand. She caressed his arms, feeling the taut muscles straining.

Glorfindel looked down on her with desperate, wretched desire. "You are ready," he said, rubbing his slick fingers together before sinking onto her; the tip of his length slicked this way and that against her inner thighs. His eyes fluttered closed, and her own lifeblood burned and flooded the hollow ache within. Her skin flushed, Arwen seized him close, hissing with the foreign sense of discomfort.

He took a deep breath, unmoving, his body halfway melded with hers, welcoming her tightness. "Slow," he whispered, claiming her mouth again. He rocked against her until her face softened and her lips parted, curling into a smile. He kissed that smile and moved deeper, her hands pressing on his rear, pacing his drawled movement. Her sighs soon struck against the glass roof, her sweet scent drifting around him.

"I want... to hear you," came the hushed order as he teased her ear between his teeth, driving into her faster, gaining what he asked for. He rose and easily slid her supple body towards him, hooked his hands behind her knees, pushed her legs to her chest so she was exposed before him. She gazed up at him wantonly, flushed and ready. Her skin glistened, and her dark hair was damp around her forehead, long strands stuck to the tips of her breasts; he took her again, harder this time, and her maddening moans flung him into the abyss.

Soon he was stifling her cries with his hand, and as her eyes rolled back in relief he reached around her waist, raising her to him and drawing her into his lap. Bright strands fell over her pale shoulder in warm waves; his chest rose and fell against her back, and with a helpless moan into her hair, he commanded her down on him. His grasp was tight, and there followed a moment of utter tranquility, broken only by their smothered breathing as he filled her again. "This will feel different," he said, his smile a beacon in the dark. The silk of her hair brushed his neck and jaw as Arwen nodded.

He tried recalling the obvious - this was nothing but a brief escape, all that should never be. Nothing would change. Neither his guilt nor his regret would fade. But she consumed his essence and boiled his blood, and so he took her in harsh, near angry thrusts, his fingers splayed over her reddened breast, his grasp bruising on her thigh.

Arwen let her head fall back and gazed into the night, lost in sleek skin and warm muscle and the spicy scent of her dreams. One breath, then another, and a sharp shudder plunged her into a spiral of mindless relief, and she was one with the swift waterfalls spilling outside. And the golden one held her so close, pushed her so deep she hissed from the strain; panting, he muffled her moans with a strong hand.

It was as though she would break and disperse into the nether, but with one hard plunge, he ceased, shaken by a fierce shiver, groaning into her neck; there was a swift, angry rush inside, and his fingers hurt as they dug into her flesh. The young one slumped against him, and for many moments none dared move, lost in the dying throes of their joining.

Stunned, Arwen tipped her head forward, her body soft and depleted, and spent in the purest satisfaction.

She was hedged down on her side, felt him covering her like a shield; his firm chest, warm against her back, his arm heavy around her waist, bringing her in. Arwen turned her face to the night again as his body cupped hers. Galaxies spun their coiled shells, heedless above them. Neither spoke, unwilling to lift the veil. It was all they had left.


End file.
